


An Heir

by songlin



Series: The Increase of Blessings [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Discussion of Abortion, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 11:04:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16157732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: Sherlock screws his face up in an expression of utter disgust. "You're keeping it? God, where are you going to put it? What do you do with it?"Mycroft doesn't deign to respond. He has no response. He isn't going to sit here and tell Sherlock Holmes that Mycroft, of all people, has no idea what he is going to do.





	An Heir

Mycroft only has the tests for peace of mind. At his age, he is sure that concerns of such things are behind him, and he takes the reasonable precautions. Still, it is good to be positive.

Or, rather, it is good to be negative. He stares down at the test in his hand.

Why, oh why, did he take the test before work? Now he has a full day ahead of him in which to chew on the...news, and work out a strategy. That’s all this is: a thorny problem.

Mycroft is in a daze all the way to work, and pays no attention at all during his morning briefing. He trusts his assistant to make note of anything particularly important.

He could make the appointment and have it over with by Friday. It should've been the first thing he did, even before he left the house. It’s a simple procedure this early on. He’s done it before once. It’s just a pill, and some bleeding, and a second pill, and some more. A few days off work. Maybe not even that.

So why does he dread the idea?

Mycroft swallows. His stomach is churning.

Perhaps it is simply the last remnants of the old familial expectations, the pressure to "settle down." Perhaps it is the societal mores getting to him: the "right to life" this cluster of cells in his body claims. Perhaps it is the latent biological urge. Perhaps, deep down, he is afraid that he will lose his mate without the shared genetic material to keep him anchored.

What Mycroft fears, though, is the truth. He fears the faint stirrings of emotions when he thinks of this bundle of nerves and guts and blood vessels as "mine," or "Greg's," or "baby." He fears—

—that he is going to be sick.

The vague churning in his gut has blossomed into a wave of nausea that would knock him over if he were standing. He blinks his vision clear, murmurs a brief "excuse me," and walks as calmly as possible to the toilet. He fumbles the lock shut, stumbles to his knees, and retches into the bowl.

What a moronic, self-defeating reaction. He spits bile into the water. Just when a body requires more, it tolerates less. When he's sure it's passed, he washes up in the basin and pops a mint from his jacket pocket. It'll do until he can clean up properly.

Work is long. Normally he would stay late, given the state of things in Egypt, but he’s been sick again and needs desperately to put his feet up and relax.

Which is why it is an unpleasant discovery to find his brother languishing on the sofa, wearing Mycroft's favorite dressing gown and a cloud of irritation.

"I need the second bedroom for the week," Sherlock announces.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows, hangs up his jacket, sits in his chair, and takes out his tablet. There is always work to be done from home. "Always a pleasure. I take it John is indisposed?"

Sherlock flops onto the sofa. "Yes."

Mycroft allows his silence to speak for him. It is eloquent to the extreme.

"What?" Sherlock snaps.

Mycroft shrugs innocently.

"Oh, please, don't be ridiculous."

"I made no comment whatsoever."

Sherlock snorts.

"I was simply wondering by whose decision you find yourself here."

"Does it matter?"

"Naturally."

Sherlock turns over so his back is to Mycroft.

"Mm, as I thought," Mycroft says primly. "Have you stooped to ask John's opinion on where he would like you during his...periods of indisposition?"

"Oh, and Lestrade asked yours?"

Mycroft colors. He raises his paper. "You're deflecting."

"Did he?"

"It is beside the point."

"So he didn't, then."

"Come now, Sherlock. Surely you aren't going to use me as the standard by which you judge my entire sex? It seems hardly reasonable."

Sherlock sniffs. "I utilize available resources."

"Talk to other omegas, then. You will quickly notice a pattern."

"Enlighten me then, since you're so knowledgeable," Sherlock spits.

Mycroft smirks. "Ah, so my sex is considered pertinent information now?"

"Oh, don't be sanctimonious. Either tell me what I'm missing or stop bloody gloating."

Very well. "My way of doing things is quite nouveau. John is more old-fashioned."

"Which means?" Sherlock says testily.

"Win him."

"Win him?"

"Yes. Feed him some drivel about your mutual emotional entanglement." Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel a headache brewing behind his eyes.

"And that's...usual."

"Yes."

Sherlock groans. Mycroft can't help but smile at it. He sounds for all the world like he did at nine years old, learning he was going to the same public school as Mycroft.

"It sounds hateful," Sherlock pronounces.

Mycroft sets his tablet on the end table. "The trials of relationships, I'm afraid."

To his irritation, Mycroft remembers his impending news. He reaches for his tablet, and finds that Sherlock is studying him. Mycroft keeps his face schooled and bored-looking. Sherlock is undeterred.

"You're lying," he says.

"Really, Sherlock. Are either of us ever entirely truthful?"

Sherlock groans. "God, you weren't. You're doing something. About to do something."

"Ah, yes, and what a rare spectacle that would be. Sherlock, if I wanted to put up with shoddy cold-reading, I'd see a palm reader." He opens his news app again.

"Oh, God, you can't leave Lestrade."

Mycroft lowers the tablet. "That was a jump."

"Hardly.” Sherlock rattles off a long deduction about Mycroft’s arrival time, appearance, and general demeanor that features a number of impressively large logical leaps. Mycroft tunes him out about twenty words in. “Conclusion: you are waiting for Lestrade to come home, at which point you will inform him. Too bad. I won't permit it."

Mycroft's eyebrows could climb off the top of his forehead. "You won't permit it?"

"No. As repulsive as the thought of you in a relationship is,” Sherlock says, looking pained, “it does come parcel with significant benefits. Lestrade won't be nearly as receptive to giving you favors when you two are no longer...involved. I need those favors. Ergo: I won't permit it."

Mycroft shuts his eyes and rubs his temple. It was always only a matter of time before his pestilential brother worked it out before his time. It would save time if Mycroft just told him. But then, Sherlock could use the exercise. And if Mycroft is honest, he's the littlest bit spiteful. _If you can't work out, I'm certainly not going to tell you._

"Reexamine your evidence," he says lazily, from behind the protection of his paper.

"What do you mean—"

"Sherlock. Stop being deliberately obtuse."

Mycroft's not sure why he's encouraging this. Likely because he doubts Sherlock will ever work it out.

But then, he does. Mycroft hears the exact moment it happens. Sherlock's breathing, formerly slow and even, halts altogether. There's a moment of stillness before he lets it out. Now, though, his breaths are shallow and quick. Mycroft turns the page of his paper.

"You're..."

"It's just as I've always said," says Mycroft, ignoring the wild hammering of his heartbeat in his chest. "Be as sure as possible in your conclusions before you try to grandstand for the populace."

"There's _more_ of you?" 

Mycroft grimaces. "Nicely put."

"You're...reproducing."

"The condition goes by many names, yes."

" _You’re_ reproducing." 

"Your support is appreciated."

Sherlock screws his face up in an expression of utter disgust. "You're keeping it? God, where are you going to put it? What do you do with it?"  
Mycroft doesn't deign to respond. He has no response. He isn't going to sit here and tell Sherlock Holmes that Mycroft, of all people, has no idea what he is going to do.

With an exaggerated eye-roll, Sherlock sinks down in his chair. "Ugh."

"In any case, you are free to use the spare bedroom, although I would encourage you to consider my advice."

Sherlock is opening his mouth, no doubt to fire off some pithy retort, when the door opens and Greg Lestrade comes in. Mycroft's stomach drops.

"Mycroft, you're home early," Greg says. "And I see we have a guest," he adds, looking askance at Sherlock.

"Oh don't mind me," Sherlock says airily. He rolls off the couch and stalks upstairs in that melodramatic fashion of his.

"John, er, needed private time?" Greg says to Mycroft.

"Yes."

Greg shakes his head. "What a couple of absolute idiots."

Mycroft laughs nervously. Greg frowns.

"Are you okay?"

There is a rushing sound in Mycroft's ears. He clenches and unclenches his hands.

"I have something to tell you," he says, feeling as if he is talking through a puppet, "and I think you should sit down for it."

Greg sits down.

Mycroft tells him.

To his credit, Greg does not react. Mycroft loves him for that.

"Mycroft," he says. "Do you want this?"

Mycroft looks down at his knees. "I...did, once," he said. "But I had accepted the situation as being unattainable."

"Bullshit," Greg snorts.

Mycroft is momentarily taken aback. "Pardon?"

"You, accepting anything you want as unattainable."

Mycroft's mouth feels very dry. He licks his lips. "You are a perceptive man, Gregory."

"Have to be."

"Perhaps," Mycroft begins. He stops, takes stock of his faculties, and tries again. "Perhaps it was more that I...modified my priorities based on my assessment of their likelihood. Frankly, it never seemed possible that I would manage a bondmate, let alone a child. So I changed my goals."

Greg nods. "I'm...yeah, I follow that. If you want to stick to your guns and not take this on, I'll be with you all the way."

Mycroft worries at his bottom lip. He cannot lie to Greg and say he hasn't considered all options. All rational thought points to termination as the most feasible, sensible option. Greg's support clears the final potential obstacle. And yet...

The revival of parenthood as a possibility has reawakened hopes he thought he had abandoned. He imagines it: the small, bright eyes, the warm bundle tucked into the crook of his arm, the wide smile like Greg's, the feeling of good and right and forever.

"If you do want to do this, though," Greg is saying, "I'm still with you." He grins. It's a sly, nervous grin, and Mycroft could kiss it. He thinks he will, later. "You've got me locked in now, don't you? All this bondmate nonsense and all."

Mycroft's heart throbs. He takes Gregory's shoulders, pulls him in, and really does kiss the grin off him. Gregory makes a surprised little "mmph!" But he follows along just fine.

Mycroft breaks away with a small laugh. "Let’s," he says.

Greg's eyes light up. "Really? Actually? You want to...have a fucking kid with me?"

Mycroft laughs again. "It would seem so."

Gregory's grin breaks wide and beautiful across his face, and oh, the things Mycroft would do to see him smile like that again.

"Shit, we're doing it," he whispers reverently. He has one hand on Mycroft's stomach, rubbing over it in a proprietary way that should not be half as wonderful as it is.

"Yes," says Mycroft. "Now, I would be much obliged if you took me to bed."

"Fuck, yeah," Greg groans, and swoops in to kiss him.

Mycroft is attuned to that voice and what follows, and hearing it just now is...incandescent. His entire body has gone from anxiety to relief that it is unspeakably gratifying to have this outlet for his energy to flow into. Gregory's hands cup his face and angle his head down to allow him to truly plunder Mycroft's mouth. Mycroft gasps and holds on for dear life.

It's strange, he muses, as they stumble towards the bedroom, how something so little as a kiss can cause such a monumental shift in his mood. When they fall into the bed together, Greg looks at him and grins. Something hot pops in Mycroft's chest at the sight.

"We're having a baby," he says.

Mycroft's mouth twitches. "Yes..."

Gregory spreads one hand over Mycroft's stomach. There's nothing yet, not this early. But the light pressure still makes the space above Mycroft's pelvis feel warm and full and fluttery.

Greg's grin spreads even wider. It's contagious, for some reason, and Mycroft finds himself smiling back. He is sure he looks quite the idiot, but can't bring himself to care.

"God," Greg says, sounding bowled over with wonder, "I love you."

Mycroft can't quite smother his little gasp at that. He doesn't trust himself to speak. In lieu of words, he pulls Greg down by his tie and kisses him.

They shed clothes clumsily, flinging a jacket here and a sock there, until they are finally, gloriously naked and lying on their sides, Greg pressed close to Mycroft's back and one hand possessively pressed to Mycroft's stomach.

"Gorgeous," he growls in Mycroft's ear. "Fucking gorgeous. Love you so much."

He hitches his hips, and his erection spreads Mycroft's arse cheeks. Mycroft pants and leans into the contact.

"Oh," he says, and "oh, Gregory. Yes."

Greg's hand crawls down, down, trailing over russet curls and curling over the shape of Mycroft's shaft. He fights the urge to buck.  
_"Gregory."_

"Love you like this," Greg says. "Trying to keep your head. Love it when you lose it, too."

He closes his hand, finally taking Mycroft's cock properly in hand. Mycroft groans in relief. Greg begins a slow, gentle, teasing pattern.

"Remember how hard you lost it when you were in heat?" Gregory's cock twitches against Mycroft's backside, which sends a pulse of want through him. "When we made this baby? Made you beg for it."

Mycroft whimpers humiliatingly.

"God, you're gonna be so beautiful. Love your body, love what it does, love your brain—Jesus, you're—brilliant."

Mycroft had pushed back into Greg's cock at the moment Greg had rocked forward, and it solicits a very satisfying sound from his lover, who speeds up his strokes.

"Wanna do everything with you. Love you so much, Mycroft, I—"

It isn't much stimulation, but between the hot, kept feeling in his very bones and Gregory's words, Mycroft is fast becoming overwhelmed. He reaches back and squeezes Gregory's hip.

"Almost there?"

"Mm."

Greg speeds up a little more, and pushes his cock into Mycroft hard, and oh, that's it, that's it, just a little—

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs. "So fucking beautiful, and you're mine, all—"  
Mycroft loses the rest of it. His orgasm strikes him with a gasp, and he comes shaking in Gregory's arms. Behind him, Greg's language has devolved into fragments and curses as he frantically ruts against Mycroft's arse. 

"Fuck, fuck, yes, Jesus, good, so good, so mine—"

Greg doesn't muffle his shout. Wetness spurts onto Mycroft's back. He moans in approval and arches back into the contact.

They lie there catching their breath for what seems like a long time. Greg laughs. Mycroft has to turn over onto his other side to face him.

"What?" he asks, perhaps a little peevishly.

"Mm," says Greg, "Just..." He grins. "A baby."

Mycroft's teasing rejoinder dies on his lips. Instead, he just grins back, letting joy shine earnestly through.

"We are, aren't we?"

 


End file.
